


Echoing Back

by AllieCat (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AllieCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being deleted as I've come to hate it and it needs a total overhaul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

“Do you think we should do something about him?” John asked quietly, sitting beside Sherlock and watching Mycroft from afar. Neither of them wanted to approach him, but it would have to be done eventually.

“This is Mycroft you’re talking about. There’s nothing you can do. He won’t listen, he never does.” Sherlock replied, his eyes downcast and his voice barely higher than a whisper. They didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to admit that Lestrade was dead. It was surreal, and possibly the most horrible thing that Sherlock had ever faced in his life.  As a young adult, when Sherlock had been drugged out on just about every illegal substance under the sun, it’d been Greg that had saved him. The quality of the Consulting Detective’s life was all due to one man, Gregory Lestrade.

“You’re right.” John sighed, taking Sherlock’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The funeral had been beautiful, moving, it was everything you could possibly expect. It wasn’t something any of them had seen coming through, Greg being gunned down on duty. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and no one could have stopped that.  

“I’ll go and talk to him.” Sherlock murmured after a while, the sight of his older brother weeping becoming too much to sit back and ignore. He stood up, leaving John on his own and headed over towards the still unmarked burial plot, where Mycroft was standing stock still, completely silent besides a choked sob here and there. He stood there awkwardly, unsure of what he should do or say to make this right.  “I’m sorry, Mycroft.” Sherlock murmured.

“I’m fine.” Mycroft returned, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the loose dirt beneath his feet. He flinched when he felt skinny arms holding him, but he didn’t say anything, couldn’t bring himself to look up.  Thinking back, Mycroft realised that he couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had hugged him. It must’ve been years. “I’ll be fine.” He choked, allowing himself to be pulled closer, and hid his face against the stiff woolen collar of Sherlock’s coat. Gregory Lestrade was the only thing that had ever made sense to Mycroft, and no amount of pining and crying would ever bring him back.  Mycroft took a deep breath and pulled himself away from his brother’s stick thin form. He wiped at the tears that had fallen on his cheeks, and stepped away from Sherlock. “I am fine. Please do not worry about me.” He said firmly, feigning confidence. He was so very, very far from fine, but he didn’t need anyone worrying about him. It wouldn’t do anything to bring Greg back, and he didn’t want to be mollycoddled. Sherlock nodded at him, having no words left to explain everything he felt he should be saying and watched as his brother walked away, leaving him to stand at the grave of his brother in-law, the one who’d saved his miserable life more than once, the one whom he owed everything to.   


Sherlock stood there, unable to think, or speak, or move. He didn’t know what in the hell one was supposed to do in such a situation. He’d experienced death before, and had even wound up very nearly dead on more than one occasion, but it was different this time. His father had been an arrogant, abusive monster of a man, and his mother had been terminally ill. Sherlock knew how to deal with it then, he’d managed to come to terms with it, and had understood even if he was only a child the first time ‘round, but this time.. There had been no warning, nothing more than a text from Sally Donovan to tell him the news. No one had thought to call Mycroft, and it had been up to Sherlock to break it to him, when he himself could hardly believe it had happened at all.

“Come here.” John murmured, wrapping his arms around the detective and locking him in a tight hug. Sherlock hadn’t even heard him approaching, but he wasn’t going to argue either. Sherlock didn’t particularly enjoy being physically comforted, he didn’t see the point in it or the value it held, but over the past week, so many things had changed and John’s arms around him were more than welcome.

“I miss him.” Sherlock murmured, leaning his head down onto the doctor’s shoulder, and taking a ragged, rasped breath.

“I miss him too, love.” John sighed, his fingers tangling through Sherlock’s black curls. “I still can’t understand how this happened.” He murmured, his other hand resting against Sherlock’s back.

They stood there a moment, the taller man tucked comfortably in his shorter counterpart’s arms. Really, it should have been the other way around, but neither of them said anything about it. The whole situation was wrong, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did and Sherlock blamed himself. “I should have done something. I should have been faster, I should have done something more. I sent him a text that send him to his death.”  Sherlock looked down at John, the fear in his eyes unable to be masked. It was his fault, and Greg might still be alive if he'd just been that little bit more efficient. 


	2. Insomnia

Three days with no sleep was not healthy for anyone, not even Sherlock no matter how much he denied any scientific reasoning. By day four, Mycroft was at his wit’s end. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to set foot in the bedroom. He stood outside the door, bracing himself against it’s frame and looked in. The bed was still unmade, sheets tangled and messy. There was a glass of water sitting half empty on Greg’s night stand, as if he might be coming back to finish it. Mycroft turned his back on the bedroom, closing the door behind him without a sound, and left, resigning himself to the fact that he would never have his Gregory home.

He tossed and turned in the guest room bed, unable to get comfortable. Sleeping alone wasn’t something he’d ever expected to have to return to, not on a permanent basis anyway. He reached out into the space where the slightly shorter man should’ve been. There was nothing there though. Just cold, empty space.

 

***

“I’m a bit worried about your brother, Sherlock. He’s really not taking it well.” John sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable spot. Eventually he gave in, and curled into Sherlock’s side, and the taller man’s thin arm wrapped around him almost instantly.   
  
“I know.” Sherlock replied, fingers gripping John’s woolen knit just slightly. “But he’s more stubborn than I am, and that’s saying something.” Sherlock murmured, resting his head against John’s greying blonde hair. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was incredibly worried about Mycroft. He hadn’t been into work since Lestrade’s death, now two weeks ago, and on the rare occasions that Sherlock had seen him, he looked like he’d been hit by a bus. “What am I meant to do, John? How am I supposed to just keep on keeping on, like none of this is my fault.” He looked up at John, the most pleading and desperate look in his eyes that the ex-army doctor had ever seen.  
  
“Don’t say that.” John said quickly, dragging Sherlock back down into his arms. “Sherlock, none of this is your fault. Greg had a dangerous job, and it could’ve happened at any time. It didn’t happen because of a message you sent him.” John tried to reassure his partner, taking his hand and holding it gently. Sherlock was blaming himself, and even though he knew it wouldn’t help anyone, he couldn’t seem to stop it either. Lestrade had saved his life on more than one occasion, and he hadn’t even been able to return the favour.    
  
“I know, John. I just...” He paused, trying to find the words that fit. Nothing seemed to fit right anymore, every word in the english language felt gaudy and wrong and stringing sentences together had become a challenge. “I don’t even know, John. Why did this have to happen? Why Greg, why not me? It should have been me.” Sherlock sobbed quietly into John’s chest, and more than anything, John was relieved. Sherlock hadn’t cried once since the DI’s passing and the effects of keeping such intense emotion bottled up inside had become quite obvious to anyone that spent longer than five minutes with the Consulting Detective. His temper had shortened considerably, and there had been more than one vase smashed against the wall, and quite a few fresh bullet holes surrounding the smiley face on the expensive wallpaper.  No one said anything though, no one drew any attention to it. John just hugged the man, and cleaned the shattered porcelain and pulled bullets from the wall without any complaints, knowing that if this behaviour was the only way that Sherlock was expressing any emotion, the consequences of stopping it could be terrible.   
  


***

Sleep came to Mycroft eventually. No longer able to keep his eyes open or function in any sort of useful way, his body gave up and he was dragged into an uneasy, fitful sleep. Waking up through the night only to find himself alone once more only served as a depressing reminder that he wasn’t dreaming and that this whole situation was in fact real. He had spent such a long time trying to convince himself that maybe he wasn’t really dead, maybe this was all some sick and twisted nightmare and that the alarm clock would go off soon and it would be over.

  
It was never going to be over, though. Not really. He'd wake up each morning and Greg wouldn't be there. He'd force himself to eat breakfast and Greg wouldn't be sitting at the table in front of him. He'd go to ask a question and there would be no one to answer it. In the space of just a few seconds, his entire world had been turned on it's head and shaken violently and Mycroft was angry. He never even got to say goodbye. The one person he loved more than anything in the world had died in the arms of a co-worker and not those of his husband’s. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right and there was nothing that would ever be able to make it okay again. He just wanted Gregory back. Gregory had died alone and he would never, ever be able to forgive himself for that. 

 


	3. Words

“How am I meant to go on like this, though? He was everything.  I am nothing without him. Nothing at all.” Mycroft sighed, his eyes on the ground, inspecting in shoelaces. John didn’t say anything, just sat opposite him. There wasn’t anything he could say to fix this, nothing either of them said or did would be able to bring the DI back, and trying was pointless.

“I don’t know, Mycroft.” John murmured, trying to decide if he should hug the man or pour him a drink. “But he wouldn’t want you to be upset like this, mate. He loved you. Don’t let this cloud the fact that he loved you.” John begged Mycroft, reaching out and taking the politician’s shaking hand in his own.  He looked at him carefully for a moment, looked him up and down, searching his eyes. The doctor wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but there was something there, something not right with the one man who was always as cold as ice and as unemotional as stone. He wished there was something he could say to make it all better, but there was nothing. Mycroft was his brother in law, he was family now, and he should have been able to do more.

“I’m so tired, John. So very, very tired.” Mycroft murmured, still unable to meet the blonde man’s eyes.   
  
“I know you’re tired, Myc.” John replied, and sat back in his chair.  
  
“He used to call me ‘Myc’ you know. No one else ever did. Just him.” Mycroft looked up at John, his eyes glassy with tears. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Every day is the same. I wake up, and he’s not beside me.”   
  
John hardly knew what to say. Mycroft had never expressed himself in such a way, especially not to John either, and it took him by surprise. “I-- Mycroft...” He murmured, edging closer in his chair and pulling the man into his arms. There was probably about thirty things wrong with the current situation, but everything had changed. The usually very standoffish elder Holmes melted into the embrace, and John was even more surprised. He’d expected him to snap, to pull away instantly. “I think you should see a counsellor.” John murmured, releasing Mycroft and wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, not wanting to give it the chance to fall. He said his goodbyes, and took his coat from the stand by the door, and found that Greg’s jacket was still hanging in it’s usual spot. “Let us know if you need anything, mate.” John smiled weakly, standing on the porch awkwardly, almost afraid to move.   
  
“I’m fine, John.” Mycroft smiled back, though the sadness in his eyes was obvious.  
  
 _‘No, you’re not_.’ John thought to himself, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he waved, and got into a waiting cab, watching Mycroft stand out the front, his hand lifted in ahalf hearted wave as he was driven away. 

***

“So how was he?” Sherlock lifted his head up from his microscope, the same worried expression John had noticed on Mycroft creeping onto his husband’s face. John peeled his coat off and threw it over the back of his chair, and headed into the kitchen.

“Tea?” John asked, his voice coming out flatter than he had intended. “Oh, no milk. Surpise, surprise.” John laughed darkly, trying and failing miserably to brighten up the dreary atmosphere that had become their flat.  He flicked the kettle on anyway, figuring that he’d just have to put up with black tea for tonight.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Sherlock grunted from behind his experiment, though he wasn’t getting anywhere. He was too worried about his brother (god, he never though he’d have to say that) to function properly. Mycroft wasn’t himself, almost a month had passed now and if the internet and multiple books had been correct, Mycroft should be at least starting to move on by now.  But no, the elder Holmes brother sat in his flat, not going to work, probably not even eating. He’d suggested force feeding him cake, but John didn’t find it all that funny. “Hello, John?” Sherlock groaned, and clapped his hands at the doctor, who was currently day dreaming or something along those lines. “Is he alright?”

“Well...” John trailed off, hardly able to think of anything to say to Sherlock. Nothing he could say would ever appease the Consulting Detective well enough to shut him up, but he knew now that it was more important than it usually was. “He’s not okay.” He said finally, deciding that sugar coating it would be pointless and stupid. Sherlock could see through each and every lie he’d ever tried to tell, anyway. “I’m worried about him, love. He’s a mess.” John murmured, placing a cup of coffee down in front of his partner.

“Bla--”

“Black, two sugars. Honestly, you give me no credit.”

“Hm.”

John just rolled his eyes, and sat down beside the man, a mug of black tea between his hands. He breathed the warmth in, looking down into the mahogany coloured liquid. Seeing Sherlock so worked up about the state of his brother’s mental health was another big changed, but it was endearing. “He needs help, but you know what he’s like. I just hope he’s coping better than looks.” John said sadly, taking a sip of his drink. It was bitter, and the lack of milk wasn’t helping.   Mycroft was possibly the most calculated, unemotional man that John had ever laid eyes on, and seeing him so upset, so weak and completely broken  had John doubting just about everything.

“I suppose I’ll have to talk to him, then.” Sherlock sighed. Talking to his brother was still the last thing on earth that he wanted to do. He rubbed at his forehead tenderly like it might be hurting, and sipped at the coffee that had been set in front of him. “How am I meant to do this, John? I don’t talk to people. I just don’t do emotional support, you know that.”   
  
“I know love, but he’s your brother, surely there’s something you can say to help him?” John said, taking Sherlock’s free hand and holding it firmly from across the table. Sherlock only nodded, tightening his spindly, pale fingers around John’s and leaning in closer. His experiment could wait. “I hate this, John.” He murmured, eyes downcast. “I fucking hate all of this.” He didn’t want to admit that he was grieving. Sherlock didn’t have time for petty human emotions, he didn’t see the point of them or why it was socially acceptable and necessary to be a sobbing mess just to make a point.   
  
“Fine then. I’ll talk to him. But don’t expect him to listen.”


	4. World on Fire

“Hello, love. Me again. Your mum’s been, Sally too, I’d say. Miss you.” Mycroft said softly, voice faltering on almost every word. For such a grief stricken place, the cemetery was quite peaceful. In the weeks that had passed, Greg’s headstone had been laid, the grass had grown back over the grave, and Mycroft had not begun to feel any better in any way at all. Things were moving forward, and he was very quickly being left behind. He sat down in the grass, beside the black marble headstone fingers pulling out strands of grass, though he didn’t really realise that he was doing it. Mycroft had come to spend a lot of time in this place, just sitting, thinking. He hadn’t gone back to work, felt no need for it anymore. His one job, was protecting people, protecting the country, protecting the people that served his country, and he’d failed it all in one swift hit. He tried to go, tried to leave the house more, do as his therapist told him.

Catch up with your friends, Mycroft, Go back to your job, Mycroft. Her voice was etched into his mind, a young woman, younger than he was. It seemed strange to him, that a woman who was at least ten years his junior could help him, and he doubted she could. He doubted anything, or anyone could help him. Mycroft knew of one person, but that was impossible, because he was dead.

“Thought I’d find you here.” A baritone voice called from behind him. Sherlock. The last person he wanted to see. Mycroft stood up, and turned around to face his brother, even if he sincerely didn’t want to.

“Hello, Sherlock. What do you want?” Mycroft sighed, not wanting to deal with it in any way. All he’d wanted was some privacy, and some time away, but of course his brother had to show up. Secretly, he was happy that Sherlock had given up ignoring his entire existence, even though he had a feeling that that was due to John’s influence. For the first time in a very long time, Mycroft was starting to see the Sherlock he’d known and loved, before the drugs, and the bullying in his youth had changed him. If he were in his right mind, he might have been able to appreciate it more actively, but for now, the only thing on his mind was Gregory. Everything was about Gregory.

“Your therapist called me. Said you’ve been skipping sessions.” Sherlock said, tugging his coat around himself tightly, trying his very hardest not to meet his brother’s eyes. Sherlock didn’t like this place, not in the way some people seemed to. Mycroft, and John respectively, had both told him that they found the cemetery to be peaceful, and calm, but Sherlock couldn’t see it. It was full of death (not that he didn’t mind death) and murder, and illness, and dying, and it was utterly hateful. It might’ve seemed ironic that someone such as Sherlock, -the world’s only Consulting Detective no less- could work with dead bodies nearly every day of his life, and yet he couldn’t stand a cemetery, but Sherlock was beyond caring about that.

“Oh, the tables have turned.” Mycroft laughed grimly, and took a step towards his brother. Putting Sherlock down as an emergency contact had probably been an awful idea, but Anthea hadn’t been deemed suitable, as she was only an employee, though Mycroft treated her as family, and there was no way in hell that he’d be involving his geriatric mother in any of this, and so that left Sherlock, and unfortunately; having an emergency contact was compulsory.

“You need to go, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, though he understood the irony of the situation. He hated to think how many psychologists, and counsellors, and psychiatrists that he’d pissed off throughout his childhood and teenage years, and how many times he’d convenient forgotten to go, or just flat out refused. “I’m not going to stand here and lecture you, you of all people should know that doesn’t work.” Sherlock sighed and turned around, padding through the slightly damp grass, not wanting to talk to his idiot brother anymore.

“Sherlock, wait!” Mycroft called, just as Sherlock was almost too far away, though he didn’t move any closer. Sherlock turned around slowly, and didn’t move either. They stood there, twenty or so metres apart by now, and if it wasn’t for the wind, Sherlock wouldn’t have heard a word Mycroft would say.

“What?” Sherlock called back, waiting for Mycroft to speak.

“I love you.” Mycroft said, quietly enough to wonder if he’d even been heard. Sherlock hadn’t heard him, but the movement on his older brother’s lips, and the desperate expression on his face told Sherlock all he needed to know. Mycroft stood there, in tears once more, clearly wanting an answer. Gregory had died without knowing how much he loved him, and he would be damned if he didn’t make sure Sherlock knew.

Sherlock was still for a moment, not sure what to say, or what he should do. “I know.” Sherlock shouted back after a while, the wind blowing through his hair, dragging the words from his mouth. “I love you too, Mycroft.” He said, louder still, and turned on the spot, leaving the cemetery without a backwards glance.

“Good.” Mycroft mumbled, but he was alone again, alone with his thoughts, and with his dead husband, and so he sat in the grass, and he cried. His heart felt worn, and battered and even though the rain had started, he didn’t move. The world felt like it was on fire, and it was more that he could handle. He tried to move past it, to bring himself to normalcy, or what he could manage of it. He couldn’t, though. He tried his hardest, but always ended up crumbling once more. The rain poured, and his suit was soaked through, he didn’t move, it was like his legs were made of lead, and when he did try to stand, they turned to jelly.

“Come on, Mr. Holmes.” Another familiar voice said, and he followed numbly walking back to the black car that was starting to feel like a holding cell, like a prison. He hadn’t even come in the car, so he wasn’t exactly sure why he knew exactly where to find it, but find it he did. 

"You can't keep running into the weather like that, Mycroft." Anthea said gently, though her eyes never left the Blackberry that seemed glued to her hands. "You're going to make yourself sick." She murmured quietly, and leant over, turning the heat up in the back of the sleek, black car. 

"I'm fine." He replied, wiping rain from his shoulder, though it was futile as his entire coat was soaked through. "I am fine." 

"You're not fine, don't be stupid." Anthea returned, just as flatly. It was obvious how not fine Mycroft was, the poor man looked like he hadn't slept once since Lestrade's death, and rather than throw himself into work like everyone had expected him to, he had totally ignored it. "Are you going to come back to work any time soon?" She asked, but Mycroft ignored her, and got out of the car. He walked back to his flat, their flat, and stepped inside. 

Gregory wasn't there. Gregory would never be there. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and walked forward. 

"Time to get over it, Mycroft." He murmured to himself, as he pushed Greg's mug out of the way, reaching for his own. He ignored the chemical sweetener his husband insisted on, and skipped the coffee he was so fond of. He boiled the kettle, and poured his tea, and took it to the living room, not sitting in Greg's chair, and not touching his blanket. 

Time to move on.


End file.
